Archives for posts with tag: Fleeting Pixel

Shadow on the edge of nothing | Faint, almost translucent | Hints at body but has no | volume | Dependent on the light | yet itself | Palm | leaf | stirs in the breeze, fades | even further under cloud and | is helpless, and the sun | is helpless, too

Helpless clouds | cross the face of the sun | The definition of shadows | fades | We call out our names, and the names | hold us | and silence | holds the names

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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Under the wrath of life he found me | Carried across the logs with the amber moss | my slender body | blood that comes for the weekend | My tender | horns | still green | robin’s eggs and pine cones | in my pocket | one hundred yards, never been so far | the cliff to the sea | mist to the ground | no softer than his touch | Under the wrath of life he found me | Under the rush of music crowned me

Dab of lint, snowflake charter, and Dettol | sweeter than Chanel | it was | a different story | Legs too fine | to take the jump | the sea immense and its stroking fur | so close to my ear | so far | Hidden, hidden | from myself | what I had been | what I am | what I will be | until he | found me | Who | wants to be numbered | among the strong | when a break | a hop and a | graze | can lead you here | among the pine cones | and wet | fragments of shells | I know he | means to love me | Turns up the music | to drown our secret’s | coming | More tender | than my first real sleep | Softer | than than the cotton | wool’s | red blush | The acrid sting | stronger | than the kiss | which tells | Softer than a long decline | Sweeter | than Chanel

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

To go back to what was never there | to find a fact made of wishes | a corpulent genie painted in gold | with a bottle of nightingales | slung over its shoulder | in its brainless head | no detail of the Khmer Rouge | or stamps to tie in a name | but some powdery dust to start a new desert | and no sign of a path | forged through unknown constellations | is it the true way | or an ideal form of evasion | a dream eventually | purged of dreams?… | God encompasses us all | Pink tigers with azure stripes | tumbling from a pillow | the trees in bronze acrylic | the cab slows | through the festive season | bodies under the mistletoe | a drowsy | Ulysses of the bars and clubs | heading not for Ithaca and home | but away | hoping to set sail again | before the first stars form…

Historical accounts of dreamlike slaughter | A touching scene | of butchers with their children | the business, the need, the doting | Wrapped package | holding the fragments in | gold foil of a saint’s skin | Mies van der Rohe of the pipeline kings | the blueprints in Illinois | a green light at that hour | like shallow water both poised and posed | at dusk | At the edge, where the pattern runs out | the ghost begins its own account | in a locked head | the tumblers roll | the dream secret in the skull’s dead safe | waiting to fire and to blow | a new glass vessel | a pretty inferno | a design for automobiles | a tract turning to oil | a heaven-sent peace as I fall | to the kitchen floor and they go back to talking | about caravans and macaroons | or somesuch thing | the poles and position | by spirit, want, obligation | and GPS | the cab rattling in evening traffic | taking us to our next appointment

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

der Tod ist ein Meister
Death is a Master
— Paul Celan, Todesfuge/Death Fugue

There was smoke rising, and the traffic moved slowly | Right, perhaps, today, and you may be safe, but left | who can guarantee anything? | To the right, we went, but | it was tomorrow | and there were helicopters, barricades | The weight of my body | grew upon me | those long summer days | I tended more easily | to love | We see the faces across the river | are very like our own | We know the roots lead in and down | to a heart | and from the raw | seed of the heart | a person trees out | how instantly | there are freckles, deltas | shacks on the banks of the river | the red colour | the makers call | Terre de Maroc | painted on the study’s | walls | a portrait of Mozart | the taste of her fingertips just after | she had peeled two oranges | the scent | of his breath, Marlboro | and peanut butter and cheap | white wine | The specific is | too touching | too close | to home | Cartoon the land | lemon groves | on top of the houses | temples where devils | preach and breed | tiny pink devils with eyes | of a glass blue | harder than piercing | No other place | one may run one’s flesh | take a long | vacation from the war | All is the same | the sentence | says | the same | words for children | We must look to the Master | within us | no | Master without | What? | the Lord | might say, clicking shut | his fan | Will you “must” me again? | Who needs, who wants | these bodies now? | under the stones, under the forest | branches | combed | the shadows in your dark hair, Mohammed, the shadows | in your dark hair, Naftali

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Into an Anglo-Saxon sleep | or along a mirror’s edge | what was lost | or left behind | in the search for love | Here is the place they pile the shoes | here, the books | for paramours and moneymen | students and burning | a tornado demon | the ogre of | disinterest | a rumble of dust mites | in rustling herds | grazing on nocturnal carpets | in cheap motels | on the shore of a dream | scooped up in a nap | a place you remember | with nets and racks | outrigger canoes | tumbled locks | magnesium lakes

You return, but the way back doesn’t bring you | back | You sleep in Deutschland | with a near stranger by your side | You half wake and wonder | how you have drifted into your teens, again | a net curtain’s August breath | of air | stirs in the corner of your brow | Cornish skies | a chapel’s haul | of mounted sermons, peaks of emptiness | puzzles | ad infinitum | books you fell into | as into strange cave systems | half-finished books | half-asleep truths | Her flight was not for three hours yet | she flitted round the room | like a trapped butterfly | stared down from the window | over the half- | finished city | the perfect location | for her half-finished life | And here is the place they pile the books | the books for tearing and for losing | settings for superb equations | lions’ odes | recipes for decadent cakes and other | items of confectionary | On the mantel | books you read long ago | idle and moulder | mothballed revolutions | and their words are like trapped butterflies | sewing the constricted space | of lifeless rooms | with flakes of sapphire and pollen | no cleaner for days | Beneath your sexy head | there is a faint, impenetrable vibration | the engine of unknown connections | working in the stillness | of the winter evening | the sound of settled loneliness | in a merchant seaman | slumped reading in his bunk | on board a Danish container ship | carrying consignments of cars | through tropical waters | the sea | totally useless with no re-invention

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Bones of how it’s made | on Pearblossom Highway | the feel of cracks | all the way through | us | Landslide of no one | lightning above the meadow | sky the colour of absent dreams | of a black | grape’s innards | incipient | bruise grey | tint of violet | Love, bring us | together again | It all looks like it’s | drowned, underwater | Remember | forget | what it was | how it made | its vast signal | bee-spot and foxglove bell | the particular | crooks of our fingers | Holding down the swollen | head of spring | battling | once more | these basic things | Looking from above | eating the storm | for lunch | truck-stop | train | jumper | we are thieves | running | not sure | just what it is | we’ve stolen

A huge spell | cast over us | size of a life | scale of a city | The desert | can’t cure or | cleanse us | add another | brick to the structure | go or stay | I am the carpenter | today | you, the electrician | Rig up | the storm | climb the step | ladder | above the sign | Legerdemain | infused | the cactus and the shell cases | with a perfume | and dry-throated coda | of Orpheus | later | after the slaughterhouse | a few last | wisps of | lullaby | In February | push open the | swift | snow doors | toss my bones | in a bag | carry me hard | to the flame | then scatter the flames | in the library | Turn | your head | a little my way | we bossed | the crowded streets | YOUR NAME | HERE | I’ll show you | the delicate | skeleton | of the rain’s | baby | You’ll show me | the flesh of how | we found | we’re lost

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Lullaby comes for the spirit | Despite those complex towns | strafed over autumn by repeated showers | and a sound of planes | fire and smoke where there was education | shopping | the public | arena | lullaby comes | Despite the cannibal | mother | the alpine | patriarchs | cave-dwelling | memories | hairpin | bends the spirit | climbs | and descends | and climbs again | in a Bianchi concerto | lullaby | comes | Put down the items of your theory | lay aside your passions | both grandiloquent and modest | cling, if you like, if you must, to the names, but you must | when lullaby | comes | release and be released by them | poor Ontario | Mesut the Graceful | golden-loined | Aphrodite | and Hermes, the silver-lined | Tipped out | like excess wine, the voice | with its queue of migrants | its infinite portion | of the obsolete | quietens | small goblins fold back their spiny ears and wait | for the belovéd hand | to stroke their heads | the bedraggled numerals | bob and spin | as muddle enters | and ether more | slowly | stirs | for lullaby is here | the spirit | finds all flames | stripped from the fire | water without moisture | a darkness | beyond moon or sun | and the dead | at last | for the first | time | truly | begin to die | For spirit bows to the sweet | far-off music | silence ends in | Night | comes to sleep | and sleep | comes for lullaby

I woke suddenly, and wasn’t sure how much time had passed | You were beside me, naked in the August heat, curled up, your back turned | I was in place | where else could I be? | The parameters, I mean, were drawn | the poem settled to its measure | the lyric contracted to a point | it needed to illustrate | Fortunately, the future | with its unfazed mystique | seemed there, as ever, to bail us out | to prevent the egos’ boat | from foundering in our drowning waves | of mirrors | Evening was approaching, another day | passed without | coming to harm | or to achievement, either | I found myself | gazing for ages at a random detail | of the floating ruins | a column with stylised acanthus and palms

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Hold on longer if you can | I’m going to slip away | We have said our piece | what’s left but to turn our backs | or say our piece again? | Smoke is coming from the horses’ eyes | You listen to the captains, shouting

Some of them tried to stay, and build something | It wasn’t there when they got back | and it wasn’t what they wanted, anyway | They needed a story to put their story into place | the gilt buttons on the cuffs | and the braid | but I don’t need their story | or yours | tell it if you want, though | maybe someone will listen? | and it will come in useful, someday? | Keep talking | Don’t I please you anymore? | You know, I think I’ve just lost the knack | of caring | it will probably come back | Caresses like mist on the lake | pass over our bodies | we can’t spend the day | chasing the wake | it leaves no memoir | the children | wave from the boat | but they’re someone else’s children | They want to get it right | or at least, pull it apart | so it doesn’t work anymore | as long as they know it’s finished | that’s the main thing | then they can move on | You know who they are | because you’re one of them | As one captain dies, another starts up | and the orders begin | That’s the problem with the past | It’s never going to happen

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Connecting back to | things that are not there | Decorated walls in | Chinese plum trees | 1930s | only a | few blossoms left | The love you invited | The sense you made | Black | trails of pixels | For lovers, and refugees | So many | wrong numbers | Ghosts on the line | asking | Is it you? | Is it you? | Is it | you?

I’m not here |      | My flesh has | receded | A house full of echoes | wandering like | cats | looking for voices | Boats run aground | The ground run aground | Keeping the void | tidy | decorated | with pine needles, sprigs | of holly | Hiding the day | in a crack in the wall | Detached | residence | A stranger | walking towards you | holding out | handfuls of sea

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

Too late to put an end to it | Touch the bruise as if | dipping a finger | into a pool | feel the pain | ripple | to heal | Placed a building | in my glance | stone doorway | no record | of the people who | entered and left | that way | You open | the fist’s | flower | in a long-lashed eye | aubergine and café noir | charcoal and ashes | hint | of flamingo | peach-skin | dawn | The doorway | waits | Life | flings | you from your own | uncurling | fingers | and thumbs | Ice | is good | They didn’t know | any of them | where they were | couldn’t | draw the contours on the journey | The stone | either side of them | the clock with its | temporary stage and wings | the calendar | the quarry | the parameters… | Some thought | they were about | to leave | Some thought | they were arriving

I | put your lipstick on | because | I want to feel | close to you | Envelopes with news of deals | needing | Sure, I’ll… deal… with… | Air in the wardrobe | Blood, I’m afraid, on the mirror | and the dresser | and the chairs | It seems | I am | a gangster of Europe | Old | letters in a rack | drained | airmail blue | stamped | franked | with dry | visas of passage | Shadow | under the bed | Centuries | in the washers | It seems I am | related | to other | hard men | to street punks | to all the | pointless | bravos | to gangsters | in America | to yakuza | and most honourable | gangsters in China | White suit | florid tie | diamond links | heavy | gold | on my fingers | pull up | in the heart | of the financial | quarter | Why do they | insist upon | a different | order? | Go their own | free way? | Threw a door | from my glance | and felt my muscles | tense | before the lightning | sighed to | hit | You cannot | leave me now | no matter | what you think | You will have | a hint of | dawn | round your | long-lashed | eye | and your look | clings | a moment | to what | the lightning | lit | I want this | to go on | and yet | I put an end to it

 


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)